ecemoer 1997 & % * $ k$ $$ * * * Mount Wachusett Community College Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from Federally funded with LSTA funds through the Massachusetts Board of Library Commissioners http://archive.org/details/mole1997moun Two Inches Short of Manhood For some the measure of manhood comes on the battlefield. For others, it may be the playing field, the weight room, or standing up to the schoolyard bully. And for some, it might come in the quiet observation of the health club locker room. For me that "golden moment" when my manliness was to be proven to the world was at the Topsfield fairgrounds. It was a chilly October evening and the air was filled with the unmistakable aroma of fried dough, cotton candy and nature 's beasts. No, I wasn 7 driving a team of muscle-bound Clydesdales in the horse pulls. No, I wasn 't the one who caught the greased pig, shaved a sheep in fifteen seconds, or worked the truck accessory booth. I was the guy who was trying to ring the bell at the top of that long vertical pole with a wooden mallet. You know, the one strong men walk up to and smash, sending a small metal shuttle up a towering shaft past all those flamboyant little titles that get more socially acceptable the closer they are to the bell. The bell that echoes over the fairground and everyone turns to see this man standing there with huge forearms and a strong back while saying and pointing, "There is a Real man! " Tonight was finally my time. The bell would toll for me! 1 paid my dollar and stepped up to the test. I stood there facing the giant challenge like a modern day Ulysses. That bell staring down at me like the singular eye of a Cyclops, looking down and laughing at my small frame and attempt. For a moment, as if I had eyes in the back of my head, I could see them, the gathering crowd. I could see my girlfriend there, too. I so very desperately wanted to win her a stuffed prize. Most of all I wanted them to see her with a Real man! I wanted to turn from ringing the bell and triumphantly extend my reward to her. She would hug or kiss me; her affection, my real reward. I grasped the hammer with both hands and jerked it from where it lay on the ground. Fooled by its looks, the hammer was very light, and I staggered back from using too much force to lift such a light object. Fear struck me as I thought, "This hammer doesn 7 have enough weight to it! " I then realized I was going to have to put all I had into this swing. I had wasted enough time... I swung the hammer back and brought it around in one beautiful, graceful, exquisite arc. The head of the hammer touched down squarely on the plate, in perfect position. The plate pivoted on its fulcrum and shot the shuttle upward toward its destination. Up past limp-wristed! Up past bedwetter! Up past nose picker! Up past momma's boy! Past dude! Past big guy! Stopping two inches short of the bell? Stopping two inches short of Real man\ Jim Tedesco Robot Mom Performing my mundane tasks efficiently, pursuing input of family needs. But sometimes I feel I've blown a fuse because I never get to rest. My emotions are held within, the forgotten human being inside the mechanical skeleton. Performing to commands like a mechanical puppet on strings, controlled by others 'fantasies, forgetting all my fantasies. No time to think, to eat or sleep because my programming is not complete. My programming is a characteristic of my mechanical construction. Experiencing occasional short circuits, in my excellent design. My energy is nil, I must continue on. Because I am a robot mom. Sandra Dejnak What is Death? Is it the cessation of life? Is it the passage into a "better world? " Or is it merely the loss of the conscious mind? A passage into the unconscious Into a simple state of nonexistence. The loss of sensation. The loss of perception. The darkest blindness. the most deafening silence. Nothing to smell 'cept the rot of your own body. Nothing to feel but the claustrophobia and the burrowing worm. The euphoria of not being able to be heard And the Utopia of not caring. A simple state of nonexistence. No more worries of disease no more worries of violence No more worries of age The simple art of unconsciousness. No need to eat No need for drink No need of family No need of Love A state of eternal sleep. The ending fate of every man. There are no exceptions Everyone must die Dreams of immortality are a fool 's device The skin goes blue and cold as ice The body, rigid, over which weeping mourners stand in black. The loss of a friend, father, brother, Lover. The loss of a sister, mother, and wife. No one is spared the fate of death. What is death? jmc September' s Song Drip, drip, drip. .. the sound woke me this morning. It's raining, I thought. I opened my eyes and squinted as the sunlight struck my face. Very strange! The sky is shining blue between the slats, but the sound of rain persists . I rise and run to the window, pulling up the blind. The sun shimmers on the drops cascading down from the edge of the roof above. It glints on the wet tiles of the porch roof below the sill, and turns to iridescence the steam spiraling up from the frosty layer set down by the early morning air. September, a month of transition, is upon us. Each day starts in the chill of autumn, but later the glow of the sun warms the air to near summer temperatures . As the day progresses , we shed our layers of warmth like reptiles so that we may bask yet one more time in the glorious gift of the seasons. The tired, dusty leaves of the trees are slowly replaced by bright and cheerful reds and oranges, and golds. The vibrant summer flowers are gone, and in their place we see the subdued hues of mums and asters. The zucchini and tomatoes have given way to mounds of pumpkins and baskets of apples at the roadside vegetable stands. This, then, is the last hurrah of the year. Mother Nature's pulling out all the stops for that one final burst of blazing and melodious splendor. Soon will come the quiet sepia tones of deep autumn and then the black and white hush of winter . Jeanne Hue Golgotha by Shawn P. Bernard So Jesus, Old blue-eyed Golgotha lamb, How bodes the wrought iron confines of heaven? Are you still barefoot and pregnant in the soul? I 've been doing time in the universal mind And see traces of you everywhere, You old tree of life virgin bastard... So Jesus Has the populace figured out that your eyes are not blue? Has the congregation stain glass saints yet given truth to your skin, Or given all of your lily-white reflection back to the earth You old Golgotha lamb! Have you died for nothing? Will our propagators never learn to sell your love as it is? Raw and unwaxed without the dyes of glamour 's appeal? Old Golgotha lamb! Do not kneel down before the big screen television of heaven! As we kneel down before the big screens of American Glamour. America is dying, And Golgotha stands in our living room... Without a spotless lamb. Oh Jesus! Golgotha high as hell! America is without vision! Golgotha high as hell! America is without a hero! Golgotha high as hell! America is without trial! Golgotha! Perfect Spotless Lamb! When will we see our idols unplugged from their electric God-walls? Golgotha... America is without vision Golgotha... America. Golgotha... Daddy 's Little Girl The grass grows green around the spot where your now unfamiliar body lies. I stare at the neatly engraved scriptures on the cold slate that stands before me. I wonder who worked so hard to make every line deep and beautifully carved. And I wonder if they know what kind of person you were. I 'm sure they didn 't know about your love, or your thirst for poison. About your talent for angry words and broken promises. How do you explain the colorful blossoms around your grave, when dead roots and rotten flowers were all my child eyes had ever seen? He's here. Watching me. Rubbing the dust away from my dry eyes. And he wants to speak. Throw his fists up in the air and scream, "I'm sorry, God forgive me, I 'm so sorry! " To clench his jaw tight as tears rush from his eyes, wishing he could of turned back. But God was watching as he laid passed out on my lap, his blood tainted with what his body yearned for day and night. And then, there were no more excuses, no more promises, no more I 'm sorrys. So now, all that is left to do is spy upon me. Listen to me at night when I thank God he took you out of my life. All that is left to do is roam this place full of faceless names, and wonder— who 's taking care of daddy 's little girl now? Jennifer s hat tuck Wind heavy-laden with expectation Sends past fears spiral ing away from the great and often unachievable pillar of success. Salty beads of perspiration streak through the brow now knotted in concentration. Piercing eyes search intently for the pinnacle of this day 's journey, though never look back Upwards the path leads the challenger as it has done for the many that have come before. Muscles in perfect unison work toward a common goal. The final push an end to this day 's arduous adventure: VICTORY! Hollow walking through an empty abyss thinking of what happened to this, as I sat and listened to the words my heart broke into pieces, onto the floor with a single crash there are no words that can bring it back, so long ago it seemed, when we were one. Cora Cleveland Reality Bites As I lie in the lap of luxury Amused by my selfworthlessness I ponder the meaning of my existence I realize how futile life really is I wonder who would want my life A six digit income Three new cars Plush uptown apartment I wonder who would actually want to live this way Married, no kids: too busy with our careers... I startle back to reality as I hear the door open she enters and flips on the light The cockroaches scatter and hide from the blinding light The floor is dirt, the baby is screaming in the other room The apartment is small and by the track She is returning from her third job today She walked the mile home in the snow and cold She begins to whimper as she turns over her pay check No food this week, the baby eats first As I take her in my arms, to comfort and console, I realize... This is Reality. ..It Bites jmc Reflections in a Mirror She wasn't the prettiest girl, but there was something about her that people noticed. Even though her hips were a little too big, and her breasts weren't very large, people talked about her. You see, her beauty went a lot farther than her slightly pouty lips and unusually large eyes. It was something about her that shined. A blinding light that seemed to penetrate into the darkest of souls. Men didn't flock around her when she entered a room. After she was therefor a while, her conversation and her awkward laugh would summon them to her side. It was as if she'd cast a spell upon them. Because after all, she wasn't perfect. And you would probably agree that she would never grace the cover of a magazine. You see, I saw her one day. She was sitting on the side of the road, rubbing her feet into the dirt, circling her fingers in the sand. She was brushing her hair away from her eyes. It wasn't long, flowing hair that blew in the wind. It was short and rustled; cropped to her head as though she cut it herself. As she looked up, our eyes met. I stared at her. Trying to convince myself that all they say about her is true. And she smiled. She smiled as though I knew. As though I understood something about her, that maybe everyone else didn't... Jennifer shattuck Watchtower Now 's a time just as good as any to wander and look. No approach but a pen from group of three to black glass 'd freaks and the world spins in gossip and fear —I don 't belong here. And while I 'm at it, Where are the rest of my shadows? Could they be buried in mind? And the watchtower gleams in the distance come along... ...this is what it means to love. Be me for a day; you '11 discover what it means to be free. Open up your mind and set it on fire. Lose yourself in the wind and see just how close the horizon is and it 'sjust mindgames after all... listen to everything, you '11 surprise yourself You 're beautiful after all... Jeff Landry Haiku Night takes me away As the pines whisper your name. Why am I still here? Jeff Landry Unspoken Incantation by candlelight, i am gentle hermit, rain patter on my shelter, mindful and selfless Zen, the sound o/Tao, the only word with no pure grammatical explanation, and raindrop chorus a meditation in itself, one raindrop in billions; the sound of one raindrop falling. an incantation for those with ears. spirit reminder, gently wears the stone of my being and dissolves my learned ways back to the essence of being uncarved, unborn, can you understand existence of pure nonexistence, infinite empty infinity, yet infinitely whole. and being, a lazy and rapid river. moving and being moved by the hand of our mother; sound of one hand clapping. Shawn R. Bernard My car and me. The road. Liberty. Leaving my hometown. Leaving comfort and support. To find solace. Inspiration awaits in the heartland of America, the canyon lands of the southwest, the mountains, the valleys, the plains. The city, the country, suburbia. Techno parks and amusement parks and city parks and playgrounds. Bars and restaurants, music halls and corners. And people. To meet people and live side by side. For inspiration. To advance my writing. To advance my life and change. The bayou, the prairies and swamps and cliffs and ridges and paths through the brush. To see where others have stepped and why. It excites, the mere possibility. Highways and roads, the tools. They are for rent; my own personal tool is a car. A Nipponese pile of rubble. No creature comforts. No money. A bum rolling across the country. Conversation in Lunenburg: "So, how 's school? Dorm life OK? " "Ya, I 'm having fun. It 's a lot like high school. How 's the Mount? " "Good. But my journey across the country was better. It improved my life. " Jack Kennedy Leave the masses Embrace the questions never asked of fallen gods Symbolic gestures forsaken lectures Apocalyptic fallout Drowning in a sea of tears of bodies laid in earthen dust upon the hollow cries of timber brought to shore upon the wind We lie at rest in ancient slumber mourning burning leaves are falling give us that of which we ask listen to our calling A. I feel as though I am an aged woman hiding behind a face of youth A young girl flirting with a wisdom I will never understand Do you understand me? or do you question my stare? I am, after all, the girl with intensely blue eyes a woman Camouflaged beneath strands of woven cotton My mind blank, and shiny pink lips and void of There is a deceit behind those blues Nothing to share, Yet innocence closes over them or insight which I care. Can you see me? Because your words I close my eyes, are spoken to a place in me hands crossed upon my calm chest. I do not see I feel naked Waiting, Worthy of sex waiting... lust passion The television 's light pierces, deception through my eyelids. But no love Why not love? Blue, light. Jennifer shattuck I roll to my right, and left. I hum a tune softly, tapping the beat with my right foot. Restless My eyes open, and close countless. Andfinally, Dan Patton Twilight A tiny chill upon the breeze, a glimpse of scarlet in the wood The glittering mass of the milky way, All forewarn of autumn 's coming. The scent of wood smoke, Ribbons of fog in the morning sunlight, And the deepening shadows of early evening Give notice of summer 's demise. And as Mother Nature winds her way Toward her soft and billowing bed She sheds her raiment of red and gold, Leaving it scattered across the ground, And pulling her comforter of white up to her chin She settles to sleep. Jeanne Hue, 1997 Ami wrong to hate you father? Hate you in life and love you in death Did you ever really exist? I cannot remember your face but I remember the pain in your red eyes is that wrong? I cannot remember your stare but I remember my agony, the wretched ache in my soul when weekends would come I dream of you father, in my sleep and your spirit is naked next to mine in an unfamiliar bed cover with deception sewn with your lies Fear washes over me A flood of confusion over the truth of our life together I hear the song you 'd wake me with but I cannot remember the words I envision your drunkenness passed out on the bathroom floor And still 1 cry Cry over a feeling inside me that I cannot identify Where does it come from? its point of origin unknown the salt in my mouth is the only concrete reminder of the suffering inside of me I am not good for anyone my mind my body my memories have all been used Jennifer shattuck 4 Wu fa *A bT: % Editorial Staff: Allison Lahikainen Jeff Landry Jennifer Shattuck Jeanne Hue Advisor: Arthur Marley Those wishing to contribute to The Mole or to I Magazine may submit their writings to Mr. Marley in room 366.